


Do you think the Moon loves the Earth?

by winter_hiems



Category: Cyrano de Bergerac - Edmond Rostand
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Feelings, First Kiss, Fix-It, M/M, Modern Era, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23516173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_hiems/pseuds/winter_hiems
Summary: What if Cyrano survived the end of the play?What if Roxane had been in love with him before she found out about the letters?
Relationships: Christian de Neuvillette/Roxane, Cyrano de Bergerac/Christian de Neuvillette, Cyrano de Bergerac/Roxane
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is partly inspired by the original play, and partly by the Martin Crimp adaptation.
> 
> cw: contains a mention of blood

Saturday mornings at Ragueneau’s were always the same. 

They always took the same table in the café: in the corner, by the window. Roxane was always early, Cyrano always meticulously on time. He would enter the café, more often than not, exactly as the grandfather clock in the corner struck nine am. It was probably a deliberate choice of his, to enter at the strike of the clock. Every mountain in the land would crumble to dust before Cyrano de Bergerac lost his panache. 

They would talk. He would fill her in on society gossip and which plays were good and which plays were terrible and which plays were by Moliere and therefore worth less than the paper they were printed on. He made her laugh whenever he could. It wasn’t as easy as it had once been. It hadn’t been easy for fourteen years. 

The clock chimed, nine tidy peals ringing out into the coffee-scented air, and Roxane turned, expecting Cyrano to come striding in with a joke and a lopsided smile. The door didn’t open. 

By five past nine she expected him to come rushing in any second, cane in hand. 

By fifteen past nine she expected him to waltz in with an excuse (but probably not an apology). 

By half past nine she expected an excuse _and_ an apology. 

By twenty minutes to ten, Roxane was worried. Fourteen years and he’d never been more than two minutes late. Where could he be? 

At length, he came. It was twelve minutes to ten, and he sat at their table, ordered coffee with a joke to the waitress, and asked, “That tapestry you’ve been sewing. Any chance you’ll finish it in my lifetime?” 

She smiled. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for you to taunt me about that all week.” 

They lapsed into silence for a few minutes, before a breeze brushed the tree on the other side of the window. 

Cyrano watched the leaves float to the ground. “There’s something soothing about autumn leaves, isn’t there?” 

Roxane lifted her head at the sight. “When they fall the sun shines through them. It paints them gold.” 

“Oh, they fall very well. A final journey followed by inevitable decay, but they do it with such grace that it can’t be anything other than beautiful. The last beauty those leaves will ever have.” 

“You sound sad.” 

“I’m not. Far from it, Roxane.” He seemed to pale. “I’ve bought you some books.” He set a bag containing three books on the table. Roxane took each out in turn, and paused when she got to the last. 

“Comical History of the States and Empire of the Moon, by Cyrano de Bergerac. How come you’re only telling me about this now?” 

“It’s an advance copy. Aside from me, you’re the only person to have one.” 

“Thank you. Are you going to sign it for me? A few words: ‘To my dear friend Roxane, etc.?’.” 

“I think I have a pen somewhere.” He reached into a pocket and winced. Slowly, his hand came out of the pocket empty, and clutched the table with a white-knuckled grip. His eyes narrowed to slits from the pain. 

“What is it? Cyrano?” 

“Nothing. Well, something. Just an old wound, a souvenir from Arras. It hurts whenever the weather turns.” 

She sighed in sympathy. 

“The pain will pass in a moment.” He smiled, but it was clearly with some effort. “It’s fading already.” 

“We all have our own wounds.” She pulled the letter from her pocket. The paper was yellowed with time, but it still bore the marks of both teardrops and blood. “This one’s mine.” 

“His last letter,” said Cyrano. “May I read it?” 

“You want to…?” 

“Yes. Please.” 

She passed it to him, relaxing a little when she saw how delicately he held it. There was no need to worry that he would crease the paper. 

He began to read aloud. Quietly enough that no-one at a nearby table could overhear the words, but loud enough that Roxane could hear the raw emotion in his voice. 

“Farewell, Roxane. Beloved, I believe that this letter shall be my last. My soul is filled with love for you. I think often of your tiniest gestures, the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and I long to cry out a last farewell. My dearest treasure, know that my heart belongs only to you, in both this world and whatever comes after and–” 

“You’re not reading.” Roxane interrupted. “You’re looking at the page but your eyes aren’t moving across it; you aren’t reading the words.” The realisation came upon her as suddenly as a tidal wave. The voice he’d been reading in. She’d heard that voice before. “Fourteen years,” she breathed. “You’ve played this role for fourteen years. My best friend, meeting me every week to tell me news.” 

“Roxane–” 

“You wrote the letters. That night, under the balcony, it was you.” 

“No, no.” he shook his head, his expression aghast. He seemed to be in almost physical pain. 

“I should have figured it out before today; I should have known every time you said my name.” 

“No, it wasn’t me, I promise…” 

“It was a sham,” she said bitterly. “All those sweet words were yours.” 

“No, Roxane I never loved you, I…” 

“You can barely say it, can you? You want to deny it but you can’t.” She took the letter from his hand and flattened it out on the table. “These tearstains... they’re yours as well.” 

“The blood is Christian’s.” 

“Why wait so long to read me the letter? Why today?” 

He was about to reply when the café door burst open. Le Bret and Ragueneau came running over to their table, drawing glances from the other patrons. 

“You damn fool!” Le Bret cried. 

“Good morning,” replied Cyrano. 

“He’s killed himself by coming here,” Le Bret said to Roxane. 

“Oh God,” said Roxane, “that moment when you looked like you were going to pass out…” 

Cyrano gave her a long look, then slipped from his chair. His shirt was poking out from below his jacket, the dark fabric stained darker by blood. Roxane fell to her knees beside him, tore the jacket open and pressed her hands to the wound in his side. Hot blood soaked her fingers. 

“He was stabbed,” said Ragueneau. “He left the hospital before the doctor could treat him.” 

Roxane looked around the café wildly. The other patrons had noticed the commotion; some of them were standing, trying to see what was wrong. She called out to them: “Someone get help!” 

“Do you remember,” said Cyrano, “That night… your balcony, and Christian? My whole life has been like that. Others get the fame and affection and glory. I stay in the shadows with nobody to love me.” 

He reached for her hand and she let him take it, keeping her other hand pressed tight to the wound. 

“Please,” she said, “Please don’t die. I love you.” Even to her, her voice sounded small and pathetic. He deserved better than such a clichéd phrase. 

He smiled grimly. “When a lady says that in a fairy tale, the prince’s ugliness fades away to nothing. But this isn’t a story, Roxane. That won’t happen to me.” 

Roxane closed her eyes for a moment. “This is my fault.” 

“No. No, you brought so much love into my life, Roxane… you gave me your friendship.” He squeezed her hand. “And I thank you for being my friend.” 

“I can’t lose you,” she sobbed, unsure of when exactly she’d started crying. 

“I would not ask you to grieve a single minute less for Christian. So noble, so handsome… But please, for me. If I don’t make it, please mourn just a little for me.” 

Roxane tried to speak, but found herself unable. 

He tried to push himself up off the ground – “I can’t die lying down.” – but Le Bret pushed his shoulder down, forcing him to lie on his back. “This isn’t how it should be,” he complained. “If I’m going to die it should be with my sword in my hand.” 

They stayed like that, a blood-soaked diorama: Roxane weeping, one hand being held by Cyrano and the other trying to slow the bleeding, Le Bret holding Cyrano down, and Cyrano Savinien Hercule de Bergerac, fighting Le Bret as he tried to stand, fighting to keep his eyes open, fighting everything about the situation except the placement of Roxane’s hand in his. 

But his grip on her hand was getting weaker. By the time the paramedics arrived his eyes were closed more often than they were open, and when they loaded him onto a stretcher he resisted only feebly to the removal of Roxane’s hand from his. 

*

It was Ragueneau who took hold of Roxane’s shoulder and pulled her to her feet. Ragueneau who led her over to the sink and washed the blood from her hands and from under her fingernails. Ragueneau took her back to her flat and sat her down on her bed. 

“You should change clothes, I won’t look.” 

“What?” she said, looking up at her. 

She gestured to Roxane’s jeans. The knees were stained with Cyrano’s blood from where she’d been kneeling. “Those will need a soak. Do you have a bath?” 

“No, just a shower cubicle.” 

“I’ll soak them in the kitchen sink, then.” 

“My flatmate won’t like that.” 

“I’m sure she’ll understand.” 

Once the jeans were soaking Ragueneau made a few valiant attempts at conversation before she squeezed Roxane’s shoulder amicably and left her alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously this chapter borrows heavily from the final act of Rostand’s play, as well as inspiration from the Martin Crimp adaptation.
> 
> One of the few things I didn’t like about the Martin Crimp adaptation was that Roxane ended up living in a flat paid for by De Guiche. Seeing as originally Roxane ends up in a convent, I thought that living with a female flatmate was a more suitable modern comparison. A refuge of women, instead of a refuge arranged by a man.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome <3
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. Credit goes to Edmond Rostand and Martin Crimp.


	2. Burying the Past

The text came mid-afternoon from Le Bret: “He’s going to make it.” 

Roxane gasped with relief as the tension that had been building up in a place between her shoulder blades suddenly relaxed. The release of it left her dizzy. 

Only this left her with a whole new problem. If Cyrano had died then she would have known what to do: a funeral, mourning, grief. Difficult things, but she understood them well enough. She’d done it all before. His survival thrust her into the unknown. What could she do now? 

She had loved Christian, she did love Cyrano, but both of them had lied to her. 

She read through the letters, every letter he had ever sent her. Over a hundred, and this time she knew that Cyrano had been the one holding the pen. 

After that she read his book and laughed and cried over it by turns. 

In a fit of rage she cut the false signature off the bottom of each and every letter, but couldn’t bear to throw the signatures away. 

Two letters a day for that long month of war. 

A night on a balcony and words from Cyrano and a kiss from Christian. 

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but she woke one day feeling cleansed. The wound of Christian’s death was closing, but to heal it entirely there was something she needed to do. 

Roxane looked around her apartment with fresh eyes. 

She had been miserly with her army widow’s pension, buying cheap furniture and simple food, not once dipping into her fortune for luxuries. Her bedroom was bare, characterless. For fourteen years she had given herself only the most basic necessities of what she needed in order to survive. The only objects in her room that even hinted at her soul were her unfinished tapestry, the books Cyrano had lent her, and those damned letters. 

For fourteen years she had been keeping herself alive, but she hadn’t been living. 

Roxane wanted to live again. 

*

She was cold. She knew she should have worn a jacket as soon as she stepped out of the apartment building, but she hadn’t gone back to get one. She’d been afraid that if she turned back at any point, she would never be able to do what she had to do. 

She sat in the back of the taxi, playing with the cuff of her shirt. It was white, with small buttons at the wrists. She paired it with her newest pair of jeans and practical boots. 

She hadn’t tried to make herself look pretty since… Christian. 

The taxi pulled up and she paid, got out. Roxane knew that she should have called ahead. Cyrano might not even be at home, he might be out at a play and wouldn’t be back until late. 

She didn’t know what she’d do if he wasn’t there. 

The taxi drove away, and Roxane was left staring up at Cyrano’s apartment building. It wasn’t modern, but it wasn’t falling apart either, thought the paint on the walls was peeling. 

She pushed the button labelled with his flat number and looked up into the camera. She stood there for about ten seconds, staring into the electrical eye, but there was no voice from the speaker. By the tenth second Roxane had lost her nerve. 

She turned and started walking back down the road. She was going to go home on foot, she decided. It would take her over an hour, but she wanted a long walk. 

“Roxane, wait!” 

She spun around. He was standing just outside the now-open front door, clothing rumpled and shoelaces untied. He didn’t even have his cane. 

“Wait, please.” 

She came towards him slowly, and didn’t speak until they were eye to eye. “We should talk.” 

He nodded and beckoned her to follow. 

She’d never been inside his flat before. It was simply furnished, but the rooms were laid out with good taste. The few pictures on the walls were of classical scenes, and there wasn’t a single mirror in sight. 

Cyrano kicked off his boots as soon as the front door was shut, but Roxane kept hers on. There was a chance that she’d be leaving here crying, and she’d rather have the option of leaving quickly without having to pause to put on her shoes. 

Roxane felt sick with nerves. She started with a simple question in an attempt to offset the nausea. “How’s the wound?” 

“It’s healing.” He could barely look at her. There were shadows under his eyes and below his cheekbones, but that was no surprise. Even when they met at Ragueneau’s, he hardly ever ate. 

Roxane swallowed. “Cyrano, I’m going to ask you a question to which I already know the answer. But I need you to answer me, and I swear to God that if you lie then I will leave Paris and leave France and you will never see me again.” 

He nodded mutely. He looked as afraid as she felt. 

“Did you write the letters?” 

“Yes,” he replied mournfully. “Every single one of them. Each morning I would slip past the enemy so that I could post the letters to you.” 

“And it was you talking to me from under the balcony.” 

“That too.” 

Roxane’s hands were shaking. “Why?” she breathed, the word coming out as a gasp. 

His eyes stared deep into hers. “Because you are as radiant as the glimmering stars and just as far out of reach for one like myself. I loved you. I – oh, you asked for my candour, I won’t lie – I still love you.” 

“Because I’m beautiful?” she couldn’t quite keep the disgust out of her voice. Over the years scores of men had claimed to love her because of her beauty, with little consideration to her mind or soul. She’d thought that Cyrano was different, but she had to be sure. 

“Not that. I’ve seen how the men of Paris undress you with their eyes… I could never do that to you, reduce you to an object like that. It was… there’s this fire to you, Roxane. It burns so brightly. I think you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. You’ve had it ever since we were children. I remember when I saw you after your years at school and my years training in the army. Suddenly my boyhood crush had become a woman – an intelligent, sophisticated woman – and I was a man, and my heart was lost to you.” 

“And this deception with Christian? You owe me an explanation, Cyrano; I can’t ask him.” 

He bowed his head. 

“Christian loved you and you returned his love. The man was an Adonis, his heart was true as an arrow, but he didn’t have the words to woo you. You wanted speech that flowed like a summer brook, phrases that painted the air with verdant colour… He could never produce the speeches, the declarations of love that you wanted to hear, and he knew it. I thought that with my words in his mouth, my letters signed with his name, you could think him a man worthy of your affections. In spite of that clumsy tongue of his he was one of the best men I’ve ever had the honour of knowing, and I knew that he’d make a good husband for you. I was thinking of your happiness.” 

“I would have been living a lie. Every time he praised me or told me that he loved me the words would have been false.” 

“He loved you. He agreed to the arrangement out of pure, unfiltered love.” 

“I – I know.” Roxane tried to calm her anger. She wasn’t even sure who she was angry at. The two of them for deceiving her? Or herself for not seeing the deception for what it was? Fury and love were battling each other in her chest. “And what did you get from the arrangement? You wouldn’t have been able to have me.” 

“But I was able to tell you how I felt. I had thought before of confessing to you, throwing myself at your feet. Yet every time I saw you, you took my breath away. Sometimes I couldn’t even look at you. A confession would have been impossible! My words would have stuck in my throat and you would have laughed at me. With letters, and beneath the balcony, I was safe. Safe to tell you how I felt without looking into those night-dark eyes and knowing that my love was not returned. And after Christian died I wanted to preserve your memories of him. I wanted you to believe that you had married a man who was truly your equal, in eloquence as well as form.” 

“You could have had me,” she said, feeling tears well up behind her eyes. “I’ll admit, my first feelings for Christian were because he was handsome. I was young, twenty-one. I could be shallow. But you… if you had told me how you felt, if you had signed your name at the bottom of those letters, I would have been yours.” 

“I don’t need your flattery, Roxane. I’ve seen myself in the mirror more times than I can bear to reflect on.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with how you look. You’re–” 

“Don’t.” he snapped, the word both a plea and a warning. 

Her throat was dry when she swallowed and broke the silence: “I have decided to forgive you. For the deception. I’ve forgiven Christian too, though he isn’t here to know it.” She wrung her hands. “I – all these years I’ve been stuck in mourning, and I think it’s killing me. I feel like a corpse that walks and talks and eats and sleeps and nobody can tell that I’ve died. I want to feel alive again, Cyrano. I want to read books and go to plays and finish my tapestry. I want a future, and I’d like that future to be with you.” 

“You said that you loved me,” he breathed. “I’ve longed to hear that for almost as long as I can remember. But are you quite sure? You’ve only just found out about the letters. Which means that you’ve loved me for just under two weeks. Roxane, I gave my heart to you a long, long time ago, though you didn’t know it at the time. The way I feel about you and the way you feel about me are likely to be… uneven.” 

“I was in love with you before I found out about the letters.” The truth tasted cool in her mouth. 

He gaped at her. “How?” 

Roxane took his hand. “After Christian died, you were the one who held me as I wept over his body. When suitors came for me you drove them away so that they wouldn’t intrude upon my mourning. And after that, you met with me every week for fourteen years. Sat by me, lent me books, made me laugh. You nearly bled out because you didn’t want to miss our appointment. After all of that, how could I not love you?” 

Cyrano squeezed her hand. “Roxane, when women look at me they look exactly twice. The first time is a shock, and the second look is to check that I’m really as ugly as their first impression. And you… you shine like the moon in the sky: ethereal and untouchable. How could I lay any claim upon your heart, when I wasn’t even trying? When I look like–” he gestured to his face, “like this?” 

Roxane raised her hand to his face. She brushed her fingertips across his forehead, and began to trace a single finger across the bridge of his nose, but he flinched away, dropping her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said, stepping closer and cupping his face in her palm. “Do you still want me?” 

“Of course I do.” 

It was the first time she’d kissed someone in fourteen years. At first Cyrano froze, and she was sure that she’d made a grave mistake, but once the initial shock was over he leaned into her, put one hand on her waist as they drank each other in. Gently, he turned her until her back was against the wall. On an impulse Roxane took his shoulder and spun, reversing their positions. He gave a small, breathless smile before he kissed her again. Now that they were finally kissing it seemed almost impossible to stop. 

They were both weeping; weeping for each other and for Christian, weeping for the lies and the lost years, but for the first time in a long time Roxane felt alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is called Burying the Past not because Roxane and Cyrano want to forget the past, but because both of them need to lay the past to rest.
> 
> What Christian and Cyrano did was wrong. They shouldn’t have deceived Roxane, and Roxane’s forgiveness doesn’t mean that the deception was alright. However, Roxane needs to forgive both of them in order to move on with her life. It’s given her closure.
> 
> I also think that Roxane would have probably developed some feelings for Cyrano over the years, especially since by the end of the penultimate Act of the play she no longer believes that a man needs to be handsome in order to be attractive. Also, Cyrano had absolutely devoted himself to her over the years. He’s been a companion whenever she needs it. And Roxane would have noticed that.


	3. Living in the Present

A lifetime as a soldier means that Cyrano wakes early. He almost sits up and gets out of bed straight away, but he remembers that he’s not alone just in time to stay still. 

He doesn’t want to wake Roxane. She slumbers beside him, her curls forming an illegible calligraphy across the white pillow. He breath is even, relaxed. She must feel safe; safe as a vixen in her den. 

The t-shirt she’s wearing is one of his. It used to be black but repeated washings have faded it to a dull gunmetal grey. Not pretty, but it’s soft and comfortable. 

Cyrano had handed it to her without comment the previous night. He’d known almost instinctively that she wasn’t ready for the two of them to make love, in the same way that he’d known that she would stay the night before she’d even asked. 

They lie on a double bed, but last night it had clearly belonged to a single man; only one pillow and he’d had to get the other one from the spare room, and after that came the offer of the t-shirt. 

Past that, his premonitions had failed him. Cyrano had expected her to go to the bathroom to change, but instead she stripped to her underwear in front of him. The movements had been pragmatic, artless. He suspected that she’d been too tired for flirtation, but she hadn’t needed to be seductive. 

Her very presence intoxicated him. 

When he changed into his nightclothes he’d tried to imitate her example, shedding his clothing methodically and dressing just as quickly. In spite of the complete lack of eroticism, her gaze had still caught on the planes of his shoulders and chest, and Cyrano had known that in that respect, at least, he could not fail her. Years of army drills and fencing have kept him fitter than most men, even if he does need to lean on a cane these days. 

And then they had gone to bed together and they hadn’t made love. 

If and when the time comes, Cyrano thinks, they will have to take precautions. He hasn’t the right temperament to be a father, and even if the mother was as lovely as Roxane, any child of his is bound to be born with a certain undesirable feature. He won’t inflict that on some poor unsuspecting babe. 

A part of him feels guilty at the way he’s thinking about this. After all, Roxane and Christian never had their wedding night. What right does Cyrano have to know Roxane in a way that Christian never did? 

He thinks back to their wedding, and the nonsense he had spouted to de Guiche so that it could take place. Could he have really been able to marry Roxane in Christian’s stead if he’d been brave enough to tell her how he felt? He can’t quite believe it. 

Besides, if Christian and Roxane had never married, then Cyrano would never have had those long days at Arras with Christian by his side. 

He still remembers the moment when Christian came to him and said that they had to tell Roxane the truth, and later, when Christian had kissed him… 

Christian had been a mess, so deeply in love with Roxane, but he had still been the one who leaned into the kiss first. At first, Cyrano had felt like they were both betraying Roxane, but he hadn’t been able to resist kissing back. The softness and eagerness of Christian’s lips against his… 

As soon as it was over they’d both acted like it had never happened. The situation between the two of them and Roxane had been like three strands of twine so tangled up that it was impossible to unwind without cutting one of the strings, and sure enough, Atropos had snipped the thread of Christian’s life in short order. 

Perhaps the three of them would have been able to come to an arrangement; perhaps the annulment that Christian had suggested at Arras, but Cyrano doubts that things would have been simple even if he had married Roxane. Life isn’t easy for a man in love with another man’s wife, or for a married woman in love with a man who isn’t her husband, and certainly not for two men in love with each other. 

Maybe one day he could tell Roxane about his feelings for Christian; how they had bloomed like flowers by a riverbank before being tangled and muddied by the floods of Christian’s death. But of the three of them, two remain alive, and could have a life together if Roxane’s promises of last night hold true. 

He looks over at her again. Still asleep, the locks of hair lying nearest to her mouth are stirred gently by her breath. 

A part of him wants to press a kiss to the smooth hollow of her throat, to bury his face in her curls and inhale the scent of her hair, but he can’t bear to wake her. 

While she sleeps, anything is possible, but once she wakes, decisions will have to be made. 

His wound is aching again. It’s healing well, but it still protests its own existence both repeatedly and enthusiastically, and he can’t ignore it anymore. 

Careful that the shifting of weight on the bed won’t wake Roxane, Cyrano reaches for the bottle of painkillers on the bedside table, dry-swallows two, and screws the lid back on tight. They should be numbing the pain properly by the time Roxane wakes, and then she won’t have to see that the cut is hurting him more than he lets on. 

He moves to set the bottle back on the table, but it slips from his fingers and falls with a rattle and beside him, Roxane stirs. 

Cyrano freezes. Instantly his mind goes to all the ways that Roxane could disavow the events of last night. 

Yesterday the light had been dim enough for his appearance to be almost palatable, but the morning sunlight will be far less forgiving to Cyrano’s looks, and there’s the future to think of besides. If the two of them become openly a couple then there are bound to be comments, people asking what a woman like Roxane is doing with a man like Cyrano. Roxane is the type to pretend that the judgement of others doesn’t bother her, but that doesn’t mean that she’ll enjoy the catcalls and barbed remarks. 

Preparing himself for the possibility of rejection, Cyrano turns to look at his companion. 

Roxane smiles lazily and pulls herself closer to him, resting her head on his chest. Cyrano is certain that she’ll be able to hear the nervous drumbeat of his heart. 

“Did you sleep well?” she asks.

Cyrano kisses the top of her head. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to switch from past tense to present tense to show that Roxane and Cyrano have begun to move on from the past and recover from their trauma.
> 
> Cyrano and Christian’s kiss at Arras is obviously inspired by the Martin Crimp adaptation.
> 
> I have deliberately avoided describing Roxane’s appearance in specific terms. In the original play, she is blonde. In the Martin Crimp adaptation, the actress is black. Roxane is perhaps the most beautiful woman in France, and I didn’t want to put any restrictions on what the most beautiful woman in France would look like. Is she black, white, Asian, Latinx? Is her hair dark or light? It’s up to you.


	4. Finding a Future

For the first time in years, Roxane looks at her bank account and is surprised by how much is in there, before she remembers that Christian’s fortune has been added to her own. 

She buys a house – modern, one story so that Cyrano doesn’t have to battle the stairs, a large garden to distance the house from the road – and they move in. Paintings of classical scenes are hung on the walls and bookshelves line the walls and it’s home. In the summer, Cyrano practices with his rapier in the garden, and in the winter he practices in the spacious living room. 

Roxane offers him money. Half her fortune, in fact, and he refuses adamantly. He’s not a freeloader. His book is bringing in money. Still, Roxane insists that as the person with the large fortune, she will be the one who pays the bills and buys the groceries, and even though this is what they have their first fight over, they make up and Cyrano relents. 

They walk around Paris arm in arm, Cyrano leaning on Roxane on the days when his cane isn’t quite enough. They are seen at plays, and there are men who think they can separate them, but Cyrano’s swordplay is as fine as ever, and if the men try and petition Roxane for her favour, she says that she will bestow it if they exhibit one important quality. They ask her what that quality is, and she replies: “It’s simple. The one thing that I want in a man is for him to be Cyrano de Bergarac.” And then she takes Cyrano’s hand and leans her head on his shoulder, and Roxane’s suitors leave, defeated. 

After they’ve been together for two years, Cyrano buys a ring. It sits at the back of his sock drawer, and sometimes when Roxane isn’t in he takes it out to look at it. 

He doesn’t tell her about the ring until the day when she looks at him as the sun sets and says that they should get married, if that’s what Cyrano wants. 

And then Cyrano gets the ring, and kneels down, and Roxane laughs and says that she was the one who proposed, so really she should be the one kneeling with a ring. He slides the ring on her finger and asks for her help in standing up. His knees aren’t what they used to be. 

The ceremony is simple. Cyrano’s vows are exquisite. They only invite a few close friends, but there are still enough people there to throw flower petals at them, and Ragueneau has made the wedding cake. 

And for the rest of their lives they have love and poetry and golden autumn leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In spite of the fact that the play was written in the late 19th century, Cyrano de Bergerac has an instance of a woman essentially proposing when Roxane manages to organise her marriage to Christian. I wanted to continue that here. Even though Cyrano buys the ring, dating Roxane won’t have magically cured him of his self-esteem issues and he would still be hesitant to propose, so Roxane gets there first.


End file.
